


Sun and Moon

by Synodic



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Animal Instincts, Biting, Culture Differences, Knotting, Mating Rituals, Mutual Pining, brief descriptions of violence, mild miscommunication, mildly dubious consent in non-sexual situations, very very mild gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synodic/pseuds/Synodic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every frame-type had its own set of instincts, and every Polyhexan, much like Vosian Seekers, had an over-active prey drive and a complex system of dominance rituals. Half of it was learned behavior, brought on by living in a place where hunting cohesively was the key to survival. The other half of it was coding; undeniable, natural, and powerful.<br/>Or, the one where Prowl and Jazz have a cultural miscommunication, and find some deeper understanding of each other and romance along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The alternate title of this fic is "how much world building AND self-indulgent nonsense can i fit into one piece". ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿
> 
> (tags will be updated as necessary)

Polyhex was, by and large, a mystery to most of Cybertron. Not in the way Praxus, or Vos was, due to strictly regimented borders and an insular society, but rather because even to the locals it was a difficult and hostile environment. While the borders of the city were open and friendly, there were few who actually dared venture within, especially since it involved either flying in narrow spaces or a very bumpy boat ride.  

It was less like one city in actuality, and more like a group of small floating towns that didn’t bother to go by more than one name. The topmost town was nestled deep in a labyrinth of copper canyons, at the mouth of a cave that flowed into the underbelly of Cybertron. Half of its structures were carved into the canyon wall itself, while the rest was built on stilts all the way across the river. Large wheels in the center of the flow gathered the hydro-electric power that fed all of Polyhex. Each section beyond the outer town was an extension of the one before, cut off by lack of space in the large caverns. About three towns in, light became scarce; the fourth through sixth never had any light more than the flickers of biolights from the cave dwelling animals they hunted for food, or the glow of their comrade’s optics when raised to full brightness. In such an environment, native Polyhexans had developed several uncanny traits and abilities that were completely unlike their fellow Cybertronians. Namely; swimming, ingesting and processing anything they put in their mouth, and navigating total darkness perfectly. 

Every frame-type had its own set of instincts, and every Polyhexan, much like Vosian Seekers, had an over-active prey drive and a complex system of dominance rituals. Half of it was learned behavior, brought on by living in a place where hunting cohesively was the key to survival. The other half of it was coding; undeniable, natural, and powerful. 

Prowl knew this to the core of his spark, and he had prided himself in being so knowledgeable in so many different cultures. As an enforcer before the war he had taken it as a duty to those he served and protected to be able to aid any mechanism of any frame or city of origin. Pride in his knowledge, and the complacency that came with familiarity, was the root of his current issue. 

The issue, of course, being all of Jazz’s rather sharp teeth firmly planted lip-deep in the plating of his forearm. 

Noise erupted around the meeting table, and Prowl’s grip on the datapad he’d been trying to pass to Ironhide slipped, sending the equipment clattering to the table. The sudden noise only made Jazz clamp down tighter, fully fixed on keeping his ‘prey’ in his grasp, and Prowl could have cursed them all for making it just that much harder to calm Jazz down. He hissed from the pain, but otherwise kept himself as still and quiet as possible. He should have known- he  _ had _ known- better than to move so quickly into Jazz’s personal space, or to put anything in biting reach of his head. It was his own fault for triggering the prey drive, and he was grateful that his friend had just enough wherewithal to stop from himself from ripping Prowl’s arm off entirely.

It didn’t mean that he had to be complacent, however. 

“Jazz,” Came the soft, gentle thunder of Optimus’s voice from the head of the table.

The head of SpecOps glanced his way, drawn to the new noise-- and that split second of inattention was all Prowl needed. He lurched forward, sinking his own teeth into a sensitive sensory horn. Though much less sharp, they did the job, and he reclaimed his arm with Jazz’s sharp yelp of surprise and pain. 

There was a moment where Prowl could have let go, could have let a mildly irritated and pride-wounded Jazz slip away, and the meeting could have picked up right where it left off. But something in the depths of Prowl’s own spark, something Praxian, demanded otherwise.

Prowl pressed the advantage of surprise, and Jazz caved to his direction under the threat to his very delicate sensory horn, to press his head down onto the table.  He then boxed the smaller frame in with his body, caging him against the table with his arms on either side. Jazz tensed, claws sliding out with a quick snap, only to go completely still as Prowl snarled, his engine rumbling deep and heavy. Any objects left on the table rattled and jumped with the tremors, sending Red Alert into a flurry of motion as he scrambled to collect sensitive items before they fell.

The room was silent, the tension thick as they waited for Jazz to react, holding their vents and hoping that they weren’t about to witness the second and third in command of the Autobot army start fighting each other to the death. It had been a long, long time since anyone currently in the room had gotten involved in a dominance fight, and nobody wanted it to come to that. They were nasty, brutal things, no matter the frame type and among friends they caused more than wounded frames. 

They didn’t have to wait long; Jazz seemed to go completely limp almost immediately, and when Prowl didn’t let go, he let out a gentle, pitiful chirp. Prowl himself relaxed at the noise, and he gently let Jazz go. His engine settled into a gentle purr, and his tongue gently smoothed over some of the deeper marks before he could shake himself out of it, reminding himself that Jazz wasn’t an injured pack-mate to be soothed. He took his seat once more as if he hadn’t just exchanged teeth with his coworker and friend in front of an audience of his fellow commanders and the Prime. Mortification, thy name was Prowl. 

Prowl cleared his vents, collecting his datapads which had gotten knocked about in the shuffle; he didn’t look up as the other mechs took their own seats, nor at Jazz, whose optics were boring holes into the side of his helm from behind his inscrutable visor. Embarrassment weighed heavier in his spark, and he didn’t want to look around the room and see how his friends were reacting to his slip.

“Jazz could you please finish passing that pad to ‘Hide.”

“Uh-huh.” 

He did watch as Jazz pushed it over with a single finger, his gaze not once wavering from Prowl. Optimus coughed mildly, returning their focus to the task at hand. The meeting resumed, though in much more subdued tones.

Ratchet started his report as he reached over and grabbed Prowl’s wounded arm-- neither of them missed the way Jazz tensed sharply and turned his attention to the medic-- though Ratchet was less than impressed and merely tugged Prowl closer, leaving the Praxian spread in an undignified manner across the table. He didn’t protest; if he got it over with now he wouldn’t have an irate medic hunting him down and dragging him to the medbay by his chevron. 

It only needed to happen once to make a lasting impression. 

  
  


Prowl wasn’t sure if he was relieved or annoyed that Jazz managed to slip out of the room before anybody could speak to him after the meeting; not that he expected much, as Jazz was slippery at the best of times and was near impossible to pin down for conversation unless it was one he wanted to have. It just meant he’d have to track him down later so he could give his friend an apology.

The thought of  _ pinning _ brought back his embarrassment, which had lessened considerably while he’d distracted himself. Now that he thought about it, slipping away before anybody could stop and ask him questions seemed like a prudent course of action. He checked the perimeter as he gathered his things, plotting a trajectory that would take him right to the door without getting too close to anyone else. 

Freedom was almost his when he felt a large, but gentle hand settle on his shoulder. 

“Prowl.” Optimus said gently, concerned. 

_ Critical mission failure.  _

He turned, slowly enough that the Prime wouldn’t feel like he was being shaken off, keeping his door wings at a calm and casual angle. For a long moment he stood under Optimus’ gaze, and not for the first time did the Praxian feel like his facade was about as transparent as plexiglass. 

“A moment, if you please.” 

Prowl glanced around the room for aid, and found that they were alone. The others had slipped out as soon as they noticed Prime pull him into conversation, no doubt. 

“Of course, sir.” 

Optimus nodded and led him back to the table, gesturing for Prowl to take the seat at his right, while he settled back into the only chair large enough for his frame. Even so, it groaned under his considerable weight. Prowl sat, taking a moment to stack his datapads, if only to keep his hands busy. 

“Are you alright?”

Prowl squinted at the question, “Of course, sir. Have I done something to make you think otherwise?”

“Not so much,” Optimus shook his head and steepled his fingers. “I only ask because today was...unusual. We both know that Jazz in particular doesn’t bother to curb his code as much as the rest of us, and certainly not as much as you do. I just...want to make sure that you aren’t harboring any negative feelings about today. We have all struggled to coexist with other frame types, and everyone has problems at some point.” 

“Ah.” He wasn’t really sure what to say. Of course he felt negatively about it; that sort of behavior just wasn’t done among his kind, and certainly not to this degree. And to do it to a friend, in front of witnesses? He wasn’t sure how much a large truck like Optimus would understand; pods of trucks didn’t have a strict hierarchy-- they were much like minibots and their warrens in that regard. “I am fine. I’ll speak to Jazz about it later, once we’ve both had a little time.” 

Optimus nodded, “Good. Thank you, Prowl. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Prowl’s getaway was much more successful the second time around. 

 

~v~

 

Prowl sank into the soft cushions of his couch with a sigh, his frame going limp. While the rumor mill had it that Prowl lived sparsely, deeming anything more than the bare minimum a waste, they couldn’t have been farther from the truth. It was just that his idea of luxury and treating himself came in the form of soft seating for his sitting room, an extra blanket for his berth, and a box of candy for him to share with his pack. 

Seekers had trine, minibots had herds, and Praxians had their pack. At the moment his was incredibly small, merely consisting of himself, Bluestreak, and Smokescreen. Before the war, he’d driven with about three dozen frames, and that was a little below average. 

He’d done his best to treat them well, to make them as comfortable as they could be with such a small number. Before, he’d never thought of becoming a First and at times his inexperience reared its head in the most embarrassing ways. Like what he’d done to Jazz in the meeting room. He found himself at a loss to explain himself and his actions, and he wasn’t sure who he could turn to to ask. 

Prowl crossed his arms under his head and buried his face in them, trying to calm his vents. Back in Praxus, making a mech submit to you without discussing it with your packmates was a huge breach of trust, and a pack would have the right to chose a new First or leave. Would Bluestreak and Smokescreen leave? 

...and it wasn’t like he could completely call it an accident.

His spark trembled at the thought. 

 

Prowl’s downward circle of thoughts was interrupted by his door sliding open, the quiet space immediately filling with chatter. Bluestreak was quickly followed by Smokescreen, and the two of them paid him no mind, walking about the entry room like they owned the place. 

“Oh, hey Prowl! I was just talking to Smokescreen about it, but I guess you can actually confirm, did Jazz really bite you in the meeting today?”

Prowl sighed, and morosely spoke into the couch, “Yes.”

“That’s not all that I heard,” Smokescreen teased as he made use of Prowl’s energon dispenser and supplement cabinet, “I heard you bit him back.” 

Bluestreak gave an overdramatic gasp, hands on the side of his face. “No!”

His pack mate nodded solemnly, “I’m afraid so.” 

Prowl groaned, slowly dragging his sorry frame upright to look at his pack, “It was a misunderstanding. I was passing Ironhide a datapad and I didn’t even think about where my arm was going to be. Jazz only reacted.” 

“And biting him?” Smokescreen pressed, leaning in.

“I….” Prowl floundered. “I don’t know. I felt it was the best course of action to get him to let me go and then…”

Bluestreak was the first to come around and sit next to him, cuddling up to his side and nuzzling the side of his face with a worried frown. Smokescreen followed, giving a quick press of his chevron against Prowl’s before he reclined, choosing instead to drape a leg over both of his pack-mate’s laps. 

“And then what?”

“And then I pressed him to the table and made him submit,” Prowl mumbled, doorwings sagging in shame. He waited for their reprisal, their anger and hurt.

Instead, they surprised him with comforting chirps, and a shrug from Smokescreen. 

“Makes sense.” 

“How? Aren’t you...upset?”

Both of them shook their head, “Prowl, you forget that neither of us came from packs as traditional as yours. We’re not gonna get mad that you got a little bit handsy with somebody.” Smokescreen shrugged again, “Besides, we weren’t meant to have such a small pack, Prowl. Just the three of us? It ain’t natural. Of course you wanted to make Jazz submit to you, your code must be going  _ nuts _ .” 

“I...I guess.” Prowl stroked the top of Blue’s head, eliciting a happy purr.

“And well...It’s Jazz, you know? We like Jazz. Everybody likes Jazz. We know that you especially like Jazz.” Bluestreak piped up, his frame vibrating with happy energy.

“Everybody knows that you especially like Jazz.” Smokescreen snickered, nudging prowl’s bumper with his knee. 

Prowl batted at his limb, sniffing primly as he reached over him to grab the cube of energon Smokescreen was sipping at, taking a bit for himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bluestreak took the cube next, then passed it back to Smokescreen, who pouted at how little was left. At least there were perks to having Prowl in charge of the pack; he had access to Prowl’s energon dispenser whenever he wanted. 

“I wouldn’t mind,” Bluestreak said slowly, carefully. “If you did it on purpose, and we was one of us.” 

Prowl and Smokescreen paused. It wasn’t exactly a small thing he was suggesting, to have somebody join their pack, much less somebody of a different frame-type. Prowl had to throttle is first instinct, which was to snarl and rebuke Blue for speaking out of turn. Even if his pack didn’t mind him ‘getting handsy’, it was incredibly bold for him to actually suggest adding an outsider without his First opening that conversation first.

But times had changed.  _ They _ had changed. He motioned for Bluestreak to continue.

“It’s just…we’re all used to so much more in terms of pack. Ya know? Not that I don’t love you, and not that I don’t love this pack but I miss not having more. Just-- more people. More pack. And maybe, maybe it could go well? Jazz doesn't have the same instincts but he has some, I know he does, and uhm.” He broke off, shrugging, his doorwings fluttering too fast for either of the other Praxians to pick out one emotion.

Prowl reached out, stroking the top of Blue’s head again. He didn’t try to stop him from moving his doors, knowing that the youngest Praxian was just nervous and needed to let off some energy. 

“You’re right. We are too small. I’ll….I’ll think about it. If we all agree.” He looked at Smokescreen, who nodded.

“Good. Now, how about we go settle in for a nap.”

Bluestreak immediately perked up, and nearly flew with how fast he wiggled out of Prowl’s gasp and ran over to the large berth in the other room. Smokescreen and Prowl were close behind, and the two older Praxians settled into their usual positions before opening their arms and putting Blue between them. They didn’t technically need recharge, but it just felt so good to lay down and rest in the arms of those they trusted, synchronizing their sparkpulses and letting fields merge. Prowl stayed awake longer than the other two, optics unfocused and directed at the ceiling, his processor swimming with desires and plans.

  
  


~v~

 

Jazz was in trouble. 

More than that, Jazz was completely doomed. 

So far, his and Prowl’s schedules hadn’t coincided (by mysterious chance, he’d been stuck behind a wall of datapads playing catach-up), but it was only a matter of time. Three days and he was practically squirming in his plating with a mix of fear and excitement. He hadn’t expected this to happen-- not for a long time yet, anyway. But then again Prowl had always been a little bolder on the personal front, a little more willing to take chances with his emotions, and Jazz… wasn’t. 

His processor was a vicious loop of panic and pride, alternating between all the ways this could go terribly wrong and the pleased purr of his code. Prowl was strong, intelligent, and high up on the food chain. He made Jazz feel safe and relaxed. It felt  _ right _ . 

He would make an amazing Mate. 

Jazz keened, low in his throat, sinking further into his chair and slapping a datapad over his face. He’d never been courted before, though he’d witnessed plenty of courtships in his time. And Prowl was important. Prowl was his best friend. Aside from the sudden vulnerability that having a mate would open up to his enemies, he didn’t want to screw it up. He wanted to do good, to prove to Prowl that he’d made a good choice. 

Three days was a long time to stew in his own thoughts, holed up in his office. 

But he wasn’t ready to leave the safety of his territory just yet, either. Not when the memory of Prowl pinning and claiming him in front of such important witnesses was still so fresh, and made him wobbly in the knees each time. 

 

Of course, he hadn’t shared the source of his demise with his fellow agents, but all of them had made sure to either steer clear of him and his dark cloud, or come bearing gifts (preferably edible). The testy third in command wasn’t sure how he felt about Mirage, who simply came into his office and sat himself down in the chair opposite his desk without so much as a by-your-leave or a snack. The noble didn’t react to the swell of growling from his boss with much more than a slow, bored blink.

“Well, out with it.”

“Out with  _ what _ ?” His armor fluffed and slicked down repeatedly, subtly trying to scare Mirage off. Shoo. Shoo!

“Whatever has you in such a snit,” Mirage sneered, taking out a knife and starting to pick out grit from the seams of his fingers. “You’ve been stewing in it for cycles.” 

“I haven’t been  _ stewing _ -”

His protests were cut off with a look, and a small gesture with the knife at all the accumulated clutter that had collected itself around his office. He hadn’t noticed at first, but yeah, he would be hard pressed to deny that the stacks weren’t a little taller than usual. So maybe he felt the need to buckle down and den himself in somewhere when he was feeling out of sorts. It happened!

“...okay, maybe a li’l.” 

Mirage lowered the knife and faced Jazz head on. Amber optics swept him up and down, searching out weaknesses, and boring through his armor with far more efficiently than any torture device ever could. The head of SpecOps shied away from his analyzing gaze. “This is about that thing with Prowl, isn’t it.” 

“No!” Jazz hissed, too quickly to be true. 

His second in command shifted closer, triumphant, and Jazz shrank further down in his seat, petulant. 

“It’s not going to resolve itself by you ignoring it, Jazz,” Mirage said slowly, gently. “Unless… it’s a problem. That can be resolved very-”

Jazz snarled-- actually _ snarled _ \-- before he realized he was doing, and actually forced himself to relax. “It’s not that kind of problem, Mirage.” 

“Oh, so it  _ is _ a problem?”

Jazz winced-- figures Mirage would pick up on that. And something must  _ really _ be wrong for him to slip up. “No. It’s just...me. I’m the issue. I don’t know what I’m doing and it’s-- it’s  _ Prowl _ . Prowl who’s... he’s... _ big _ , and  _ strong _ and… ya know, he’s got the-- and the--” Jazz had resorted to gestures, but Mirage got the idea. “And then he just...I’m just little ol’ me, Mirage! I ain’t that great.”

Mirage studied him in that quiet and unsettling way of his, unblinking and hyper-focused, like a cougaraider with a glitchmouse in its sights. Jazz prickled, his plating rustling, a small middle ground between the squirming he wanted to do and the urge he had to stay completely still. 

“You’re a hopeless mess.” he finally announced, pronouncing his diagnosis with a solemn nod. A terminal condition, unfortunately. Such a shame, Jazz was so young...

“Gee, thanks.” 

The other mech huffed, and delicately slid the chair back so he could stand. The tip of his knife tapped the desk inches from Jazz’s hands, and he tucked them under his own bumper to keep them out of harm's way.  _ Rude _ . 

“Your department is done with your nonsense and you either fortify yourself and ask him to give you what you’re so desperately thirsting for, or I will. And I will make sure Prowl gets every last sordid detail of what you want. In writing. My prose will put ‘Passion of the Kaonite’ to  _ shame _ .” 

That was, all in all, a pretty solid threat.

Jazz wrinkled his nose, “Hey! Who’s the boss around these parts?” 

“Me, until you get yourself sorted. Now shoo, you’re in my chair.” 

“You’re the worst. I’m tattling on you to Hound.” 

“You do that. Maybe tattle on me to Cliffjumper too. Tell them both that I’ve been  _ very naughty _ .”

Jazz rolled his eyes, “Glitch.”

Merely giving him a beatific smile, Mirage waved at him by wiggling the tips of his fingers. 

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaha i'm done fighting with this chapter, so please accept this as it is. thank you all for your positive feedback!
> 
> (also, tags have been updated and will continue to update as the story progresses! :D )

Prowl kept wussing out. 

Prowl, immovable object  _ and _ unstoppable force wrapped up into one mechanism kept wussing out. Smokescreen watched from across the monitor room as Prowl drew away from Jazz, closing himself off and holding his stack of datapads against his chest like a shield, bidding Jazz a good day with promises to see him later. It had been four days since the incident, and Prowl had so far resisted both actually seeking Jazz out, and pulling him aside to talk. Smokescreen had thought for sure that he’d do it this time, given that he’d received the best pep talk Smokes had to offer. 

He shook his head and churned out a heavy sigh through his vents, rolling his eyes as he watched Jazz moon after Prowl’s retreating back.

Unbelieveable. 

He and his pack had sat down together and discussed it a bit more after Blue’s initial proposition; having such a small group was wearing on all of them in different ways, and Smokescreen would put good odds on Prowl taking it the hardest. Not that he would say so, of course, but Smokescreen could read it on the tense lines of his frame, and in the irritable way he snapped at those who argued with him more and more. Prowl had always been hard on those under his command, but his need to have control was escalating. Control he would normally be able to balance out on a wider range of mechs. 

The duty of a First was to their pack, but the duty of the pack was to return the care to their First. You wouldn’t have to twist Smokesceen’s arm to get him to admit that he was worried.

Besides-- Prowl had quite a few reasons for his over-active code to have singled Jazz out of all the other mechs he associated with (Smokescreen had started listing the qualities alphabetically in their talk, starting with Aft and moving to Bumper-- Prowl’s ability to make him feel like he was being smelted by laser vision was  _ incredible _ ), and Smokescreen was going to make it happen even if he had to hog-tie his First and slap a bow on his head.  

“Base to Smokescreen!”

The Praxian jerked away from the small yellow hand that was waving in his face. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring into space instead of looking at his monitor. 

“You back in orbit, spacecruiser?” 

“Oh, yeah. Hey Bee.” Smokescreen nodded, “Sorry, I was thinking.” 

“I could see that. Don’t worry, if anyone asks I’ll tell them you were thinking  _ really hard _ about all that video feed we’re supposed to be watching.” 

“My hero.”

He adjusted his wings as he sat back, refocusing on the monitor as it flicked through Corridors 4, 5, and 6 consecutively.

Bee wiggled in the chair next to him, “Okay, I gotta ask, what  _ were _ you thinking about? It musta been pretty deep if you didn’t even notice me coming in for my shift.”

“Oh just. You know.” He gestured at Jazz, who was spinning a datapad on the tip of one finger instead of reading it. “Him and Prowl.” 

“There’s a ‘him and Prowl’ now?” Bumblebee perked up, blinking his big ol’ blue optics, the perfect picture of innocent questions. Ha, yeah right. He squinted at the minibot, considering how much to divulge. Anything he said would get back to his herd, then to his whole warren, then it would be out into the whole base faster than he could say ‘Sorry Prowl, I didn’t mean to feed personal information directly into the rumor mill, honest!’. 

Smokescreen shook his head, “Not so much.” 

This time Bumblebee was the one to squint, and he made a soft ‘hmm’ as he turned back to his own monitor, “At least they’re actually dancing around each other now, instead of just making puppy eyes when the other’s not looking.” 

“I wouldn’t consider it a big win just yet.” Smokescreen snorted. While he wouldn’t be telling Bee _ all _ the details, the little scout was just one of many who already knew that Jazz and Prowl had a “I’d be down if you were down but I don’t know if you’re down because I’m an idiot at feelings and I value our friendship too much to risk it so I’m not going to say anything and just pine hard enough to annoy  _ everyone _ ” thing. 

“I’m pretty sure if we asked nice we could get Optimus to send them on a hike.” 

Smokescreen chortled. ‘On a hike’ had taken an entirely new meaning around this base; before Jazz and Prowl had claimed the top of the will-they-won’t-they gossip list, there had been Mirage, Hound, and Cliffjumper. That party had been a novella all on its own, and it had taken them being sent out on a scouting mission together deep into the Cybertronian wilds to get their act together. The mission had been simple enough, but as with all missions, it had gone awry mid-way through, and a rather impressive list of borderline acts-of-Primus incidents had taken out their communications and transport. 

They’d had to hike all the way back to base, a walk that took upwards of a week. By the time they’d shown up on the base’s doorstep, covered in more Cybertronian flora than a garden and looking like they were ready to recharge for a month, they’d stopped circling each other and had settled into a triad. Two years later and they were not only still going strong, but not the only couple to have overcome their problems while out in the field. 

It was starting to look like a viable option, honestly. 

Still, he’d give Prowl a few more days to get his act together before he called in Divine Intervention. He knew Optimus would be happy to help.

“I don’t think it’s that desperate. Yet. Let’s give it just a little longer, and maybe try a closet first.” 

 

~v~

 

Prowl was not prone to displaying his agitation, but there was something to be said for the twins and their ability to bring it out in him. He struggled not to drum his fingers as he stared down the pair of frames across from him and listened to one of them try to explain themselves. 

Try being the keyword. Sideswipe was not  _ succeeding _ . 

“And I mean yeah I guess he’s higher in rank than us, but he’s also a total glitch so if he  _ didn’t _ want his own hands glued to his face then maybe he shouldn’t have been such a cog suckin’ crankshaft!”

“Language,” Prowl said absently, looking between the twins. Sunstreaker, as always, was staring ahead impassively, while his brother was half in, half out of his chair and emoting for the both of them. “Gluing Lieutenant Windshaft’s hands to his face is reason enough for punishment, but that’s not all I called you in for. You two have a habit of not leaving well enough alone. I know you two.”

“No you don’t.” Sunstreaker growled, speaking up for the first time, his lip curling over sharp eye-teeth. 

Prowl stood up sharply, flaring his wings out and up in a sharp V, engine growling. The twins froze, and for a long moment it was a staring game as they waited to see who would back down first. 

It was a familiar dance between them, and as always, it was not the SIC who lost. 

The twins eased up, settling down fully into their seats, eyes cast downward and to the side. It wasn’t full submission, and it never would be, but it was good enough for the situation at hand.

“I called you in here because of the brawl afterwards. Did you think that just because it took place off base that it wouldn’t get back to me?” Prowl took his seat, but he did not lower his wings. “We’ve talked about this. Extensively.  _ What happened _ ?” 

Sideswipe groaned, slouching further down, as Sunstreaker closed his optics. 

“It wasn’t really a  _ brawl _ …”

Prowl’s gaze sharpened, his irritation showing despite his efforts to remain calm and impassive. “Try again.”

Sunstreaker rolled his eyes and crossed one leg over the other, withdrawing from the whole thing and leaving Sideswipe to continue burying the both of them, one poorly constructed defense at a time. 

Prowl had to coax and prod the full story out of the red twin, who let details go about as easily as a cyberhound with a scrap of metal in its teeth… which was to say, not easily and not willingly.

Understanding came to Prowl quickly, though that did not alleviate his tension.

The twins, as with most things about them, were a unique case. They hadn’t grown up with a pack or a typical family structure, instead being raised by the rotating crew of gladiators and arena handlers. Their first friends had been the pit hounds that the arena manager bred and used for guards, adding to their many... _ deficiencies _ in social graces. 

He could still remember Ratchet’s face when he had asked them, in a fit of pique, if they had been raised in a livestock shed. Sideswipe had given the medic a confused “Well, yeah?”, and had only gotten more confused and distressed when that had served to make the medic even more angry. 

So a superior officer, whom the twins already did not like and saw as a disruption to the peace of their ‘pack’, using their rank to harass a particularly vulnerable mech into saying yes when they repeatedly said no… of course they saw it as a threat, and reacted as they did. 

It was not the first time they had done something similar, and he dreaded that it would not be the last.

Prowl steepled his fingers, wrangling his annoyance. The twins weren’t like him, he reminded himself, they didn’t have a strict idea of pack. To them, anybody who was a friend or more than a brief meeting in a sea of faces was one of ‘theirs’, and they reacted accordingly to seeing one of theirs being treated badly. 

And there was the other matter of Windshaft abusing his rank, which had not previously been known to him. 

“Alright,” He started slowly, making sure he had their undivided attention. “Neither Windshaft nor the bar owners are pressing charges, so you may count yourself lucky in that sense.  _ However _ ... you will both be confined to the brig for a week, and work double shifts for the next quarter. I’m sending you to remedial anger management as well.” 

Sideswipe sagged with disappointment, “Aw.” 

“If I see you again before your double duty is complete, there will be  _ regrets _ and they will not be  _ mine _ .” He added as he started reading the top of his datapad pile. “Dismissed.” 

He didn’t look up, but he heard the two of them scramble for the exit, and the brief shuffle as they tried to avoid collision with whoever was trying to enter. 

“Hey prettybot, come here often?” 

Prowl snorted, and the tension from his meeting with the twin miscreants drained from his frame as he looked up to greet Smokescreen, his doorwings fluttering in small circles.. 

“Only when I have the time.” 

He accepted the cube that was shoved in his direction, leaning into the brief nuzzle against the side of his face with a sigh. Smokescreen popped a hip against his desk, gesturing at the cube until his First cracked it open and took a sip. Prowl looked his pack-mate up and down, calculating; it seemed that Smokes was on A Mission today...and he could count on one hand his suspicions for what that could be.

His spark flipp-flopped in nervousness.

Smokes opened with a gentle and understanding, “Rough day?” 

Prowl sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “The twins got into another brawl. They were very, very lucky this time that I managed to talk the bar owner out of pressing charges.”

He shook his head, his shoulders sagging under the weight of responsibility he felt for them, and the other mechs under his command. He had a duty to those who served the Autobots, and it wasn’t just his old enforcer code kicking up a fuss that made him feel that way.

“I don’t know what to do with them.” he admitted, quietly. Of course mechs had a problem curbing their code from time to time, and there were always incidents (his forearm throbbed, briefly and tenderly), but the twins were pushing the limits of what Prowl could do for them. 

“They could certainly use a babysitter, couldn’t they?” Smokes hummed, stroking the edge of one of Prowl’s wings, “I mean, so could half the people we know, but ya know.” 

Prowl looked up at him, squinting, “Why do I feel like you’re including me in that demographic?”

Smokescreen’s attempt to smile innocently was very telling, “If the tire fits.” 

“Ha, ha.” 

His pack-mate weaseled under and arm and wriggled into his lap; it was tight fit, as two adult Praxians were not meant to fit in the same chair, but it happened enough that they had it down to a fine art. 

“I’m just saying, the one time we let slip to the Warren that Ratchet wasn’t looking after himself? Priceless.”

Ah, yes. That had been a rather successful method, though it had been entirely on accident. Prowl wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a mech look so angry and befuddled as when Ratchet’s opened up a drawer in the medbay and instead of finding Gauge 5 tubing, found Bumblebee with an energon cube. The minibots had been  _ everywhere _ , and the CMO had likened them to an infestation of pests as he grouchily underwent a grooming session by no less than five of his “new helpers.” 

It wasn’t until they were reasonably sure that Ratchet had taken the lesson to heart that they’d eased up and allowed him some breathing room without one of them crawling up his tailpipe in the name of self-care. 

“Who says it wouldn’t work twice? We could tell the warren that they need some looking after.” Smokescreen snorted, no doubt envisioning Sunstreaker at the mercy of a minibot grooming session.  

Prowl smiled a little at Smokescreens less than serious teasing-- and then several ideas came tumbling on its heels in quick succession. 

Well, now… _ who said it wouldn’t work twice _ indeed.

“Smokescreen have I told you how smart you are lately?” 

His pack-mate ruffled his plating-- confused, but pleased at the praise. “Uh, Thanks?”

“I have an errand to run,” He said quickly, standing up and placing Smokescreen’s aft on his desk before chugging the last of his cube. “I will catch you later, after my shift. Say hello to Bluestreak for me?” 

The other Praxian caught the cube he was passed, “Will do, boss.” 

Prowl gave him the briefest pat on the shoulder on his way out. There was no time to waste, he had a minibot to find. 

 

~v~

 

Prowl ended up scouring the whole base. Minibots had perfected the skill of being constantly underfoot, right up until he needed to find them for something. Despite their protests, he swore they had turned it into a game, and at the moment Brawn was winning. 

However, Prowl was nothing if not tenacious, and he finally caught up to the minibot as he got off shift, with his hands on his hips and his wings flared to prevent the minibot from even  _ considering _ escape. The code-deep joy of succeeding in a hunt put the Praxian in a particularly good mood.

“Uh,” the minibot slid to a stop just outside the door of the maintenance room, his coworkers squirming around him and into the hallway. Nobody wanted to stick around if Prowl had sought them out specifically, despite Brawn’s best attempts to plead for aid with his optics alone.

“Hello, Commander Prowl.”

“Brawn.” He nodded, “Walk with me.” 

The minibot slumped under the hand on his shoulder, and allowed himself to be guided down the suddenly vacant hallway. Traitors, all of them!

“I have a job for you.”

The minibot snorted “I figured.”, and a curl of mischief curled in Prowl’s spark. 

“You see, as Autobots we strive for a sense of community. It’s an ideal that, admittedly, all of us could work a little harder to strive for,” Brawn looked up at his commander, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I believe it's imperative that we keep a closer eye on those of us who...might not be so good at taking care of themselves.”

Brawn tried to act casual, but Prowl could feel the shift in the minibots frame; his interest was piqued. “What do you mean?”

“Well there are some of us who haven’t learned some necessary skills, shall we say, and I’m concerned about the effect on them and their ability to serve the Autobot cause.” 

Brawn almost stopped in the middle of the hallway, his plating twitching. The Praxian waited for him to finish thinking, his face a perfect mask. 

“You mean there’s a ‘bot on base who ain’t lookin’ after themselves?”

_ Score. _

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Prowl nodded, resuming his walk and leaving the minibot to follow. You see; Minibots, with their strong community ties, were notorious worriers for the welfare of others, even those who were not minibots, and would not be stopped in feeding, grooming, and all other manners of looking-after until they felt they had succeeded.

Most mechs who knew a minibot called it  _ annoying _ . 

Prowl liked to think of it as  _ opportunity. _

“Just tell me who, commander, and I’ll make sure they get taken care of.” Coming from Brawn, it sounded almost like a threat.

At this point, Prowl did allow himself a smile, “The twins.” 

Brawn’s eagerness dropped like a rock, and he looked at Prowl with wide, betrayed optics, realizing the trap for what it was. “The twins, sir?”

“Yes. Thank you for agreeing to check up on them for me.”

“....of course, sir. Happy to help, sir. If they ask about it we’ll be telling them it was your idea, sir.” 

He gave Brawn one last pat on the shoulder, nodding, “I would expect nothing less.”

Objective completed, he took a turn back towards the command center. 

  
  


Prowl took a moment to draw cool air through his vents, settling his suddenly anxious systems before taking that final turn into the large room. Jazz was due to be on shift at the same time, though that was normally a guess; the saboteur was nothing if not dictated by his own schedule. However….he’d been rather  _ timely _ and  _ scheduled _ lately, putting him in Prowl’s proximity rather frequently. 

And if he held true to his latest pattern, he would be spending the next three hours in arms reach of the mech. Not that he  _ disliked _ spending so much time with Jazz (not that anybody did, really), but rather that he  _ really liked to _ . Jazz was smart, and handsome, and had a similar sense of humor to his own. Jazz was a _ friend _ . 

A friend that he wanted to court into his pack, and possibly for other things, and he hadn’t the first idea of how to do that. Not for anything as important or long-term as this, and it didn’t help that his code kept twisting itself in unusual knots at the slightest thing. 

“Hey Prowler.” 

Prowl didn’t jump. He  _ didn’t. _ His wings, however, might have twitched in surprise. 

“Jazz.” He greeted, turning around to look at the shorter mech, who was leaning against the wall as casual as you please. 

The Polyhexan tilted his head, looking around behind him, “There somethin’ stopping you from going in?” 

Prowl felt his systems pick up, his frame heating, “Ah, no. I was just taking a moment to prepare mentally. Are you here for your shift?”

“Yup.” He shrugged, looking vaguely guilty. “Mirage locked me out of my own office, and I kinda gave Red Alert a spark-attack by trying to break back in… so I figured I’d come here and like, ya know, actually do work stuff I guess.” 

“Truly, you are a model for all Autobots, and others should aspire to your work ethics.” 

Jazz shrugged again with an easy smile, stepping forward as Prowl unlocked his joints and moved for the door, “I just do my best.” 

This was good. This was easy. Prowl almost sighed in relief-- 

Jazz was moving to step into the room ahead of him. 

Something in his code twinged almost painfully, demanding that he do something. He’d never had a problem with Jazz taking the lead before, but something about it this time made him irrationally, incredibly upset. 

Before he knew what he was doing, he reached out and laid a hand on his friend’s bumper, halting him from going in. There was a long pause as neither of them moved, but for the slight twitch of Prowl’s fingers on the waxed surface of Jazz’s chest. His whole frame felt like he’d been exposed to a live wire, and for a moment there was nothing but Prowl’s need to  _ keep touching _ .

Prowl collected himself with a start, thankful that Jazz seemed just as frozen in place. 

“Erm. I wanted to discuss something with you. Briefly.”

“Lay it on me, Prowler. What’s up?”

He withdrew his hand and took a step back until they were at a respectful distance, aching for that missed contact, “I haven’t yet had a chance to apologise to you for my misconduct in the meeting room the other day.” 

Jazz shrugged, and though his visor was as opaque as ever, Prowl knew from practice that he had the Polyhexan’s full attention. 

“It was unbecoming of me, and I hope that you can forgive me for...reacting the way I did. We’re friends and I don’t want anything to endanger that.” 

“Ay, Prowler! Don’t worry about it! I’m over it, okay? No biggie.” 

“Right, yes.” The Praxian nodded. There was something off about the cavalier way Jazz was beaming up at him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “No biggie. Thank you, Jazz.” 

Jazz gave him a friendly clap on the hip before gesturing at the door, which Prowl was still mostly blocking with his frame. His code purred, pleased at the smaller mech’s display of respect in letting him enter a room first. It was good, that Jazz hadn’t taken offense to his actions, even though it had taken him a bit to work up the bolts to apologize. Now, perhaps, that he’d cleared the air he could try and move forward.

 

~v~

 

Jazz had never been so thankful for his specops training in his entire functioning. 

Nevermind that he usually found some way to make a fool of himself when Prowl was around, but he had put his skills to the test in not reacting to their  _ special moment _ in the hallway. 

As he crossed the room in Prowl’s shadow, he tried to not let his spark drop out through his feet and shatter in a million pieces on the floor. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to turn what they had into a little something  _ more _ , until Prowl rescinded his courtship. 

He even said he was sorry, for Primus’ sake. 

Jazz knew that Prowl wasn’t the kind of mech to toy with somebody like that; he could be cold, yes, but never cruel. He would never make an opening move like that unless he meant it. Which meant that there had to be a reason that he decided to take it back. 

What if Jazz was the reason?

He hunched over his workstation, plugged into the hub with tactical data streaming through his HUD without him really seeing it. It was hard, to keep smiling and laughing and  _ joking _ with Prowl, who seemed pleased at the easy break between them. Jazz was almost mad. He should have been. 

But it was  _ Prowl _ . 

Beautiful, smart, wonderful Prowl. He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to be mad at him for anything, especially when he didn’t know what he’d done to make his friend put a stop to their thing-that-wasn’t. 

 

It didn’t help that Prowl wouldn’t stop touching him. Jazz felt confused and upset, not sure how to take the casual way that the Praxian would just… reach over and pat his arm, or run knuckles down his shoulder. Normally he didn’t touch Jazz (or anybody) much at all, yet Prowl didn’t seem to think anything of it, didn’t even notice it, and by the time his shift was halfway over Jazz was fit to scream and possibly bite Prowl  _ for real. _

And so, faced with an emotional crisis he didn’t want to deal with, Jazz did the only thing he was comfortable doing. 

He fled. 

  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> So, this chapter is much shorter than the other two I think, but it was the best place to leave off.  
> I've gone back and edited the first two chapters-- nothing major, just some narrative and grammar choices. I removed a few small bits, just to help with the flow. c: Not to worry if you don't feel like going back and reading, it doesnt impact chapter 3 at all. 
> 
> ~enjoy!

Prowl watched as Jazz slipped away without a word, optic ridges pinched in concern. It wasn’t like Jazz to just up and leave. Well, it was, but not with him. Not with Prowl. If anything, _ he _ was always the one to disengage from their conversations, otherwise they would end up talking into the early hours of the morning. 

He checked the officer comm line just to be sure he hadn’t missed anything that would call Jazz away, and his concern deepened when he found nothing. Was something wrong? He had been so sure that things were finally going well, now that’s he’d made the apology he’d been meaning to make for the last few days.

His spark constricted in his chest, and he had to curl his fingers around the lip of the desk to keep himself in place. Everything in him screamed to go and find out, to check on his pack-mate, to fuss and nuzzle until he was certain Jazz was alright. And he wanted to,  _ desperately _ , follow the demands of his coding and his spark… but there were other considerations. Namely, he was still on duty. And secondly, Jazz was  _ not a pack-mate _ . Not yet. The air between them had been cleared, and now laying the groundwork for other things could begin. But that was no reason to go chasing after him. 

_ Jazz slips off in the middle of shift all the time! _ An insidious part of himself protested,  _ Who’s going to mind, just this once? _

With great effort Prowl turned his attention back to his station, his entire frame twitching with restraint. Thankfully he did not have to wait long for a distraction. Trailbreaker sent a ping on the comm for his attention, directing him to an open line between dispatch and a patrol currently out on the field. Prowl tapped in seamlessly, his Identifier Glyph appearing in the communication feed beside Trailbreaker’s, the dispatch official, and the scouts Hardwire and Clutch. 

_ ::Dispatch, we’ve got Decepticon movement on route five.:: _

That was awfully close. Prowl’s spark flipped in his chest nervously, but the feeling was drowned out as his tactical computer activated, everything outside his processor dimming to background noise. 

_ ::Hold position. What kind of movement?:: _

_ ::Looks like a squad. They’re stationary, and camped out by the ridge. One of ‘em’s got a long-range comm booster.::  _ Hardwire said calmly,  _ ::Wait a tick, we got another pair of mechs showing up-- where did they come from?:: _

_ ::They certainly aren’t making any effort to hide.:: _ Clutch added.  _ ::Something doesn’t feel right.:: _

Prowl had to agree,  _ ::Maintain position, keep us apprised of their movements. Somebody get Blaster in here, I want to know what they’re sending out.:: _

 

~v~

  
  


Jazz liked to think of himself as a guy with a fairly sunny disposition. And people with sunny dispositions, who were cheerful and bouncy, did not  _ sulk _ . 

Which was absolutely not what he was doing when he slipped his way into Red Alerts domain. 

There was the main security monitors, where the rank and file took turns watching the halls...and then there was the Security Hub. The lights were low, in contrast to the wall of screens to one side of the cramped space. Red Alert was working alone today, it seemed, a bundle of cords plugged into the specialized dataports at his wrist. Tsk-- he wasn’t supposed to work alone like this, but tattling on him to Ratchet wouldn’t help Jazz achieve his goal.

As soon as he entered, he was met with the Security Directors’ less than happy stare. 

“Hey Red. Uh. You uh. Still unhappy about that thing earlier?” 

“You set of alarms. In the  _ special ops department _ .” 

Jazz, had it been another day, would have argued that it was  _ his _ territory and he was  _ allowed to be there _ and setting off alarms that he hadn’t known about was really not worth the fuss Red was making. Especially since they’d been put there without his say-so. 

“Yes! And I feel very, very bad about it!” He said instead, bouncing on his heels. “So! I’m here to make up for it!”

“Make up for it.” Red Alert repeated, his armor fluffing. He had ‘distrust’ written on every line of his frame. Which was a fair reaction, in all honesty, when the head of Special Operations showed up on your doorstep offering a favor.

“I was gonna volunteer for a basement sweep.” 

The buffet of  _ restricted access _ and  _ classified information _ that was Red’s domain made many a special ops mech giddy, and Jazz was doing his best to not fidget or  _ touch anything _ while Red Alert finished assessing the pros and cons of letting Jazz run wild in the tunnels under the base. 

The structure that currently housed the Autobots had been made out of an old factory settlement. With already thick walls and plenty of large spaces to section off as needed, it had saved the Autobots time and resources to simply modify what was already present. The downside, of course, was that underneath it ran a catacomb of runoff, evacuation, and shipping tunnels that fed right up into the base itself. They’d been closing them as they found them, but there were quite a few unaccounted for, and it was very,  _ very _ easy to get lost on patrol down there. 

The whole thing was driving Red Alert  _ bonkers. _

So a Polyhexan, a frame type naturally suited to navigating sub-terrain, offering his superior creature-of-darkness services? Definitely in the ‘pro’ column. See! He could be helpful! Look at him, so very sorry and also very helpful. 

“What’s your angle, Jazz?”

“No angle,” He shrugged. “C’mon Red! Put me to work!”

After another long assessing stare, he nodded. “You can accompany Hound. I’ll comm ahead to let him know you’ll be coming on his patrol.”

“Thanks Red, you’re a blessin’.”

He smiled and saluted at Red as he used his hip to open the door, making a break for it as soon as he could fit through the gap. Red Alert had started to look alarmed, having realized he had indeed played into the mech’s mysterious plans, and Jazz didn’t want to stick around for the Q and A he was no doubt gearing up for.

 

Hound was waiting for him by the access, chatting up a one of the mechs posted on guard duty. All things considered, he was probably one of the only Autobots on Jazz’s level of friendliness. He turned when he caught sight of Jazz, giving him a little wave. 

His friend didn’t hassle him about what he’d done to get assigned to this detail, as they climbed down into the catacombs one after the other. Both of them were of the same mind, and considered this reprieve instead of punishment.

“Alright boys, you know the drill?” Hound asked, peering back up into the circle of light above. 

“Yup! Good luck, see you at the check-in.” 

And with that he and Hound were alone in almost complete darkness. Jazz turned off the special filter of his visor, letting his eyes adjust to their natural settings. Hound, meanwhile, was turning his optics off entirely. While not a mech suited to the underground, his projection program gave him a spectacular spatial mapping ability based off ambient light and sound. Jazz had been after Ratchet to upgrade him with something similar for vorns.

“Ready?”

“Born ready, my mech.”

Jazz took the lead, following the pre-marked path on his internal map. They’d be exploring some of the farther out tunnels this shift, making sure they were clear of anything that shouldn’t be there, and checking for changes. The usual. 

“So.” Hound started a few minutes in, “You wanna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever has you upset enough to want to come down here.” 

Jazz chuffed in denial, ruffling his plating. No, he didn’t want to talk about it, and he ignored the prickle along his plating that told him Hound was paying special attention to his body language. 

Instead of answering verbally, Hound made a low croon, brushing his knuckles against Jazz’s upper arm. He hated how much it worked, just that little bit of comfort; it was dangerous being emotionally vulnerable around Hound. The blasted mech didn’t even need behaviorist training, he could sniff out emotional wounds and would hone in on them like a heat-seeking missile. It was like guaranteeing that he wouldn’t be allowed to wallow in his sulking. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He whined. 

His friend shrugged, turning around a corner. “Then don’t. Just know that I’m your friend, and whatever you need, I gotcha covered, okay? Even if it's finding a nook down here and living in it for the next decade.”

“Wait, that’s an option?”

“Oh sure, there’s plenty of turborats and slag down here you could live off of. I ran the calculations.” 

“Huh.” Jazz scratched an audial horn. “Tell me again why you ain’t in my department?”

“Because Mirage and I wouldn’t get any work done.” he shrugged, “And I’m a giant wuss.” 

 

Traipsing about in his natural habitat with Hound did wonders for his aching spark. Hound was true to his word and didn’t pry, but he did make sure he was more touchy than normal. Jazz was almost putty in his hands by the time they got to the first checkpoint. As comms didn’t work down there, they’d hard-wired some underground lines and spaced out some communication hubs. It had been Prowl’s idea, really, as all good ideas were. 

And there went his mood again. 

Hound glanced over at him between inputting the ‘all clear’ signal, worry written on every line of his frame. 

“Aw Hound,” Jazz sighed, his plating sagging. His resolve crumbled like dust in the wind, and the words just spilled out of his mouth. At least what happened in the dark and filthy abandoned tunnels stayed in the dark and filthy abandoned tunnels. “Prowl kinda dropped a bomb on me today.”

“What kinda bomb we talkin?”

“The calling off his interest kind.”

Hound reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, bringing him in for a hug. “I’m real sorry, Jazz. Did he say why?”

Jazz shrugged, engine rumbling pitifully. “No. Just said ‘sorry about that, but we’re still friends right’. Tsk. Like he even had to ask. Idiot.” 

Hound gave him a gentle squeeze and set about leading them a bit further down the tunnel; multitasking was the name of the game. “Just like that, huh?” 

“Uh-huh. And I don’t even- I mean, we haven’t even really spoken since the meeting-- you heard about that right?-- just the usual in passing stuff, so I don’t know what I did wrong.” 

“Yeah I-- wait. The meeting where you two got bitey with each other?”

Jazz’s traitorous spark did funny flips just thinking about it. “Yep.”

“The one that happened by complete surprise, not discussed between you two?”

“ _ Yes _ .”

“And you haven’t spoken since.”

“Yeah I--” 

The words died in his vocalizer as both Jazz and Hound froze, directing their attention further down the tunnel. Their audials had picked up something, just outside their range. Neither moved, all of their functions cycling on low to make them as unnoticeable as possible. 

Minutes ticked by-- Hound was almost about to move, when they heard it again.

_ There. _

It was muffled by distance and the discordian echoes that occured naturally in the tunnels, but there was no mistaking the buzz of voices. There weren’t supposed to be any other patrols this deep, and that thought alone chilled the energon in Jazz’s lines. The two mechs pulled away from each other, drawing weapons from their subspace. For Hound it was a blaster, for Jazz, it was an old hunting knife. He’d gutted plenty of Circuit Fish with it in his youth, and he found that it worked just as well on Decepticons in close quarters. 

The pair of them began moving forward, silent as ghosts. The voices were stationary, at least, making it easier to track. 

‘Easier’ of course, didn’t necessarily mean ‘easy’, and even with Hounds’ software relying on ambient noise, it was still difficult to navigate the underground and pinpoint the source. The echoes were misleading, and Jazz was starting to get a little peeved. He longed for home, where the caves had water and things didn’t look  _ exactly the same  _ no matter  _ where he was _ . 

They were close, whoever they were, just another tunnel or two down. He and Hound slowed, neither of them wanting to be caught out unprepared-- their mission at the moment was to observe, and report back for instructions. 

Jazz rounded the corner, and came face to chest with two rather large mechs, with stealth mods and dampening fields both. They all froze, the tiny saboteur looking up, the two Decepticons looking down, none of them really sure how to process the sudden appearance of the other party. Slowly, Jazz leaned to the side, peering behind them to see another pair, and then three more even further down, doing something to the wall. All of them, at least, were equally surprised with running into each other. 

Jazz reset his vocalizer.

“Fellas.” 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs* well...hello there one and all!  
> This update took much, much longer than I planned; a pretty big life event kinda sucked the energy and writing muse out of me, and on top of that this chapter just didn't wanna be written. It had to be dragged kicking and screaming into existence.  
> That said, I've only given it the briefest once-over-- apologies for any errors!

While Jazz knew that he would probably laugh about how absurdly comical the situation was later, that didn’t mean he felt any better about the array of Decepticon grade weapons pointed in his and Hound’s general direction. He and Hound had been rather quick on the draw themselves, once the ‘Cons had gotten over their bug-eyed surprise and lifted their blasters. Jazz, now knowing what he was up against, had traded his knife for his own firearm. 

He had more gusto and go-get’em attitude than the common mech, but he still knew better than to bring a knife to a gunfight. 

While both teams leveled their weapons at each other, neither seemed willing to be the first to fire, leaving them at a complete standstill. Seven against two weren’t exactly good odds, but not what Jazz would call unreasonable; still, he didn’t want to be the first one to go off when he could use the time to eyeball the suspicious box in the back, being plugged into some of the base’s power systems.

“Well don’t just stand there, you idiots, scrap ‘em!” 

Jazz wasn’t sure which one of them was --ha ha-- calling the shots, and he didn’t get a chance to look as he went into offensive mode. The Decepticons had the numbers, the tech, and the element of being better positioned, but  _ nobody _ could kill in the dark like a Polyhexan. 

He was small and fast, and while Hound covered him from behind the corner, he was free to roll between the Decepticon’s legs, opening fire. Where the ‘cons shot haphazardly, having to guess where he was even with their fancy mods, Jazz was precise. Quick pulls of the trigger laid out one con after another. 

Downside: he hadn’t been able to adjust his optics to a midway setting or risk losing his edge over the ‘cons, and each flash of a blaster bolt seared his vision like a hot needle directly into his brain module. After images of each flash echoed in his optical feed, blotting out important spots of his visual range.

Upside: he had other senses to make up for any loss of input.

Jazz felt more than heard the presence coming up behind him, and it was enough forewarning to dodge the the blade that stabbed through where he’d just been. He ducked under the next swing, coming up inside the Decepticon’s personal space-- too close for a quick enough defense. Two quick bolts of plasma through the chest made quick work of him. 

Knife: 0, Blaster:...? How many had there been?

“Jazz!”

A hot burst of pain ripped through his lower back, immediately severing any control he had over his right leg. He felt when Hound’s blaster hit is mark. He  _ also _ felt when the ‘con’s frame collapsed, yanking the knife out on its way down. Jazz followed, his frame ignoring his demands to remain upright and instead crumpling forwards, sending him on his hands and knees to the tunnel floor. 

Knife: 1

Hound was by his side a moment later, “It’s me, I got ya. The rest of the tunnel is clear.”

“You hurt?” Jazz wheezed, fighting through the array of critical system damage warnings popping up on his HUD. 

“Just a little singed. Hey, I need to go see what they were up to, you gonna be okay if I leave you here?”

“I got this,” he nodded, reaching back to feel the edges of his wound. Hound nodded, and he could hear Hound’s systems not too far away. 

Jazz hissed through clenched teeth as he probed-- the whole area was raw and tender, and sparks of hot pain made his hands shake as he mapped out the wound. Thankfully it was small enough that a single patch could probably hold it. 

“We got a problem,” Hound called into the darkness. “Our mystery box is a high-end Decepticon transponder.”

“Are they receiving anything?” Jazz needed to get over there and look with his own optics, but walking was still out of the question. He’d applied the patch and dulled his pain receptors (a hack Ratchet endlessly growled at him for), but less pain didn’t mean his actuators were going to work. 

“I can’t tell. It’s possible that the set-up wasn’t completed.”

Worrying, but if they hadn’t finished there was a small hope that they’d accidentally thwarted an op. “Right. I need you to go back to a check in terminal and sound the alarm, get some teams down here.”

“And leave you alone? There could be other ‘cons about.”

“I’ve lived through worse.”

“Prowl would  _ literally _ never forgive me if something happened to you, and he’s scarier than you are.” 

Jazz spluttered, “I-  _ what _ ? Whaddya mean he’s scarier than I am?”

Hound was coming closer, and his optics had reset enough that he could catch the vague outline of his friend’s shape. “I saw you walk into a door because Prowl had gotten a wax’n’polish for a ceremony. You ain’t commin back from that for a long time, my friend.”

“Listen.” Jazz fumbled, his face-plates heating up as he opened and closed his mouth like a gamma-guppy, defenseless. 

Hound laughed under his breath, but didn’t push him further as he looped one of Jazz’s arms over his shoulder and hauled him to his feet. “Just lean on me, okay? I can take your weight.”

“What about the transponder?”

“Disconnected it. We’ll let the team we send back here pick it up.”

“Good plan,” Jazz nodded, all but dragging his leg between them. It was slow going, but at least they were going.

 

~v~

 

Prowl had relocated to his office, but kept the comm channel open so he could observe as the situation on their border developed. It was easy to split his attention between the scouts and the reports sprawled across his desk-- it was what he’d been made for. He’d been a custom order from the government of Praxus, constructed to host the specialized computers that were currently chewing away at the situation. There was something off about the whole thing, some little detail that they were missing, but for the life of him his tactical suite could not condense the list of possibilities down to a single answer. 

Concern that he couldn’t quell nibbled at his lines, an ache starting between his doorwings from the tension. There was no way they could just launch an attack-- while having Decepticons this close to their base would certainly warrant it, they weren't near enough for Prowl to justify the use of resources or the risk to whomever he sent out. This area was riddled with hills and rough terrain that would be perfect for concealing an ambush on whatever forces he sent out to deal with the interloping Decepticon squad. 

This was where he would have asked Jazz for his input, see if he could spare any of his agents and their skills to get closer-- and he did try, but his pings went unanswered, his effort to open a comm line ignored. While he knew, logically, that Jazz was probably just busy or in one of the little pockets of the base with poor comm reception he couldn’t help but feel like he was being  _ purposefully _ shut out. Which was silly, of course. He was a mature adult. He could handle if his best friend didn’t immediately respond to his hails. 

If they were still best friends. 

_ Which they were _ . 

Obviously. Nothing to worry about.

Prowl’s optics skipped a paragraph on the report under his hand. He restarted, only for it to skip again. What if he _ had _ he ruined the best friendship he’d ever known, over a moment's loss of control? His spark squirmed in his chest at the thought. If he had, then getting Jazz to accept his advances and the offer of joining his pack was out of the question. Considering the temperament of most Polyhexans who’d thought themselves slighted, Prowl would be lucky just to get his friend to speak to him again. 

The realization felt like led in his gut. 

_ Please, _ he pled, though he wasn’t sure to whom.  _ Please just let this be something I can fix. _

  
  


Prowl had forcefully wrangled his mind off of less professional topics, and had gotten through a good chunk of the day’s paperwork when the com chatter shifted in his direction.

_ ::Prowl, we got movement.:: _

He immediately shunted all his focus into the incoming stream of data; the number of the gathered cons had doubled, and they were forming squads. 

_ :: Take us to yellow alert. I want defense squads on the perimeter, but nobody leaves the compound. Make them come to us.::  _ Prowl moved as he spoke, his specialized hardware coming online full force. His body piloted itself to the central hub on its own as he focused on bringing his officer’s channel online, pinging the upper echelon with priority messages. One by one their icon-glyphs lit up as they joined in the organized chaos. 

_ ::Has Blaster decoded what they’re transmitting?::  _ Prowl asked as he stepped into the small lowered pit in the center of the room, plugging several data-cords into the port at the base of his neck. The hub acted as an extension of his processor, bouying the heavy load on his systems by giving him more ‘room’ to work, as it were. The array of screens flickered with his arranged thoughts as he ran calculations, accessed archives and live footage; allowing the small audience of officers and personnel behind him usage of his findings in their own work. 

_ ::He’s working on it, says it’s hard to decypher because whatever they’re sending, there isn’t much.::  _

_ ::Looking for a signal to begin?:: _

There was a hum on the other end of the line as Red Alert checked over a few things,  _ ::Most likely. Whatever it is, it’s independent of their front assault.:: _

_ ::Agreed.:: _

The rest of the preparations went by in a haze, as Prowl fell into the rhythm of it. Now, there was just the waiting. 

 

~v~

 

Jazz and Hound worked their way back through the tunnels slowly. Half was the both of them being on high alert for more surprise Decepticons-with-hostile-intent, and half was that Jazz really was making a big ol’ liability of himself. 

“Hound, really--”

“Suggest I should leave you  _ one more time _ and we’re gonna have a problem.”

Jazz’s armor fluffed in annoyance, “I could just order you to.”

“Court martial me, see if I give a scrap Jazz. See if I give a  _ single _ scrap.” 

He couldn’t help it-- a titter worked its way out of his mouth. “I suddenly see why you and Cliff get along.”

“Who said I got the attitude from Cliff?” Hound was trying to keep a straight face, but Jazz could hear the laugh in his tone. 

“You sayin’ my number one agent’s got an attitude? Primus forfend.” 

“I said no such thing and will deny it to my death.” 

This was why Hound was so good to have around, such a balm on Jazz’s spark. Just being in his presence made it feel like things were going to be okay. 

 

Neither of them heard the mech, but they did hear the launch of his minor-grade rocket. 

 

The floor tossed beneath their feet while the ceiling crumbled above them. The noise was disorienting, confusing-- Jazz couldn’t get his systems to cooperate with the signals he was sending. There was something heavy laid over his frame, pinning him down. He needed it off. He  _ needed _ it  _ off _ . 

Instinct warred with his training, and he was caught between biting and clawing at whatever was holding him, and playing dead well enough to fool the enemy into passing him by. 

Consciousness slipped in and out of his grasp despite his best efforts to online. His audials picked up only snippets of conversation, but the meaning didn’t process. 

 

Between one blink and the next, he was in complete silence. The weight on his chassis felt a little less, and it was with great effort that he managed to reach up and feel it with one hand, getting a sense for what it was. 

Hound. 

He could smell him now, mixed in with the scent of scorched and wrent plating, which was universal in its stink. Jazz worked his jaw for a moment before he got the words out, “Hound?”

His friend was silent, but he could feel the gentle hum of systems against his own. Wounded, but not offline. With a grunt he pushed upwards, rolling the larger mech off of him and to the side. It wasn’t as gentle a transition as he wanted it to be, but that kind of care was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He could smell the energon now-- and plenty of it. And it wasn’t his. 

“Hound!”

The truck stirred, briefly mumbling, his optics flashing bright blue in the darkness. His optics had reset to their base setting when he’d gone unconscious. “Jazz?”

“Hey buddy. We’re fine, but I gotta patch you up. I need you to tell me all the places it hurts okay?”

His hands were already moving, pulling supplies from his subspace and setting them up in a neat row. 

Hound’s vents clattered. “Ev’r where.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Good bit of rock that fell on us, huh?” Or rather, fell on Hound. He’d bet Smokescreen that the truck had shielded Jazz from the worst of it with his own frame. 

“Mm. Big rocks.” 

“That’s right Hound. I need you to keep talking to me,” Jazz worked despite the rising complaints in his leg. This was quickly going from a solid four to an eight on the scrap-o-meter. “Tell me about that time in the canyon with Brawn.”

Silence. 

“Hound. Hound you gotta stay awake, bud.” Jazz slapped his thigh, “I swear to Primus I’m gonna start slappin ya for real if you pass out on me.” 

Hound stirred, his optics flickering briefly, “...sr y….Muh...Mirage…’n Cliff…” 

“Whatever you wanna say you hafta tell ‘em yourself I’m not a messenger.” Jazz hissed. If there was a little bit of panic creeping in around the edges...well, nobody could blame him. Hound barely managed a grunt, even when Jazz pressed down directly on one of the wounds in his leg. 

“Slag me,” he settled in beside his friend’s slumped form, gritting his teeth against the shooting pain along his back strut and down his leg. Jazz didn’t want to imagine how rough he’d be feeling if he hadn’t dulled his sensors. 

He’d patched up Hound as best he could, stopped whatever bleeding he could find. Whatever other damage he had would need a proper medic; without knowing what was wrong, Jazz couldn’t even risk using his emergency transfusion kit in case a broken line caused it to pool somewhere important. 

He wasn’t in much better shape, but at least he was online. 

With a sigh, Jazz dialed up his audials and shuttered his optics. He wasn’t exactly the praying sort, but he wouldn’t mind a little divine intervention if it meant  a rescue team found them sooner, rather than later. 

 


	5. Announcement

Right! So, first of all, thank you to everyone who's read all of this fic so far!

Secondly this is just to announce that this fic will no longer be updated-- not that I'm abandoning it, but rather I'm going to go back and rewrite it! As I've worked on each chapter, and progressed further along the story, I've continued coming up with ideas and revisions that I wish I'd added. Which is what I get for starting to post before I've completed the whole fic LMAO

I'll be leaving this fic up for now, and will take it down once I've got the re-write finished. :) Life has been very busy, but I'm hoping to get in some time to work on it soon.

Thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:  
> Pack: a Praxian specific family group  
> Trine: a Seeker specific group, subsection of a Flock  
> Herd: a minibot specific family group, subsection of a Warren  
> Pod: a truck specific family group, subsection of a Migration


End file.
